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      News
      Flash:
      Normal
     
    
   
   
    
     
      People
      Read,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Write
      Books
     
    
   
   
    
     
      By
      Joel
      GILLESPIE
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Remember
      way
      back
      in
      early
     
     
      Semptember
      when
      you
      had
      to
      trek
     
     
      over
      to
      the
      Bookstore
      and
      buy
      piles
      of
     
     
      rectangular-shaped
      objects
      known
      as
     
     
      ‘books,’
      and
      swore
      to
      yourself
      that
      this
     
     
      year,
      you'd
      actually
      read
      them?
     
    

    
     
      Well,
      as
      my
      intensive,
      week-
     
     
      end-long
      investigation
      has
      turned
      up,
     
     
      actual
      real
      people
      are
      responsible
      for
     
     
      creating
      (or
      'writing,'
      as
      those
      in
      the
     
     
      circle
      call
      it)
      some
      of
      these
      very
      same
     
     
      books.
     
    

    
     
      Equal
      parts
      trade
      show,
      gossip-
     
     
      fest,
      and
      social
      gathering
      for
      members
     
     
      involved
      in
      this
      secretive
      cult,
      The
     
     
      Word
      on
      the
      Street
      is
      a
      yearly
      celebra-
     
     
      tion
      of
      reading
      and
      writing
      in
      Canada.
     
     
      Its
      alleged
      purpose,
      according
      to
     
     
      organizers,
      is
      to
      celebrate
      Canadian
      lit-
     
     
      eracy
      and
      the
      printed
      word.
     
    

    
     
      But
      the
      ulterior
      purpose?
     
    

    
     
      A
      good
      question.
      I
      learned
      to
     
     
      hold
      my
      tongue
      and
      allow
      the
      shad-
     
     
      owy
      members
      of
      the
      Cult
      of
      Writers
     
     
      emerge
      at
      their
      own
      pace.
      During
      this
     
     
      event,
      they
      freely
      emerge
      from
      their
     
     
      dusky
      abodes,
      proclaiming
      to
      be
      nor-
     
     
      mal
      members
      of
      society.
     
    

    
     
      Contrary
      to
      what
      you
      may
     
     
      believe,
      there
      were
      no
      firm
      divisions
     
     
      between
      the
      so-called
      'New
      Writers'
     
     
      and
      ‘Established
      Writers.’
      All
      were
     
     
      welcome
      to
      socialize,
      banter,
      and
      share
     
     
      horror
      stories
      about
      their
      craft.
      There
     
     
      were
      cliques,
      to
      be
      certain,
      but
      nothing
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ‘that
      gave
      away
      the
      underlying
      organi-
     
    
   
   
    
     
      zation
      of
      writers
      in
      Atlantic
      Canada.
     
     
      The
      official
      event
      occurred
      on
     
     
      Sunday,
      September
      29th,
      yet
      that
      was
     
     
      but
      half
      the
      story.
      A
      good
      deal
      of
      net-
     
     
      working
      happened
      the
      night
      before,
     
     
      where
      a
      rowdy
      group
      of
      writers
      con-
     
     
      gregated
      to
      partake
      in
      varying
      amounts
     
     
      of
      alcohol
      and
      join
      in
      a
      spirit
      of
      cama-
     
     
      raderie.
      Having
      partaken
      more
      than
      my
     
     
      fair
      share
      of
      alcohol
      that
      night,
      I
      am
     
     
      unable
      to
      recount
      the
      event
      reliably.
     
     
      However,
      I
      do
      remember
      speaking
     
     
      with
      a
      strapping
      lad
      named
      Larry
     
     
      Lynch,
      whose
      new
      book
      (An
     
     
      Expectation
      of
      Home),
      was
      drawing
     
     
      early
      hype,
      and
      narowly
      escaping
      a
     
     
      bar-room
      brawl
      with
      an
      major,
      intoxi-
     
     
      cated
      Newfoundland
      writer
      of
      chil-
     
    
   
   
    
     
      dren's
      books
      who
      shall
      remain
      name-
     
     
      less.
     
    

    
     
      The
      event
      itself
      was
      a
      wonder
     
     
      to
      behold.
      Taking
      place
      in
      downtown
     
     
      Halifax,
      the
      writers
      --
      and
      a
      large
      num-
     
     
      ber
      of
      their
      fans
      --
      spent
      equal
     
     
      amounts
      of
      time
      experienceing
      public
     
     
      readings
      and
      sampling
      the
      works
      of
     
     
      other
      authors.
      There
      was
      an
      impressive
     
     
      line
      up
      of
      over
      ninety
      --
      yes,
      ninety
      --
     
     
      authors,
      poets,
      dramatists,
      wordsmiths,
     
     
      punsters,
      and
      the
      occasional
      rock
      star.
     
    

    
     
      It
      truly
      was
      a
      carnival
      atmos-
     
     
      phere,
      complete
      with
      stilt-walking
     
     
      clowns,
      over-priced
      food
      of
      a
      ques-
     
     
      tionable
      nutritional
      value,
      and
      the
      need
     
     
      to
      yell
      to
      be
      heard
      over
      the
      dull
      roar
      of
     
     
      the
      assembled
      crowd.
     
    

    
     
      The
      noise
      itself
      was
      a
      double-
     
     
      edged
      sword.
      It
      worked
      well
      for
      the
     
     
      open-air
      poetry
      venue,
      with
      an
      animat-
     
     
      ed
      George
      Eliot
      Clarke
      shouting
      from
     
     
      his
      "Execution
      Poems"
      as
      gospel
      to
      a
     
     
      large
      crowd,
      but
      worked
      against
      those
     
     
      who
      were
      in
      smaller
      tents
      or
      who
      had
     
     
      no
      microphones,
      such
      as
      the
      celebrity
     
     
      readers'
      and
      Newfoundland/Labrador
     
     
      authors'
      tents.
      As
      a
      general
      rule,
      the
     
     
      louder
      a
      reader
      was,
      the
      more
      people
     
     
      they
      attracted
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Having
      partaken
      more
     
     
      than
      my
      fair
      share
      of
     
     
      alcohol
      that
      night,
      |
      am
     
     
      unable
      to
      recount
      the
     
     
      event
      reliably.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Between
      readings,
      merchants
     
     
      selling
      piles
      of
      books
      by
      local
      authors
     
     
      were
      swamped
      by
      ravenous
      consumers
     
     
      eager
      to
      snatch
      up
      the
      latest
      and
      great-
     
     
      est
      releases.
      On
      the
      other
      end
      of
      the
     
     
      spectrum,
      remainder
      tables
      were
      busy
     
     
      liquidating
      those
      books
      who
      have
      yet
     
     
      to
      find
      a
      mass-market
      acceptance.
     
     
      (Two
      dollars
      for
      Evan
      Solomon's
     
     
      "Crossing
      the
      Distance"
      makes
      me
     
     
      smile
      on
      so
      many
      levels.)
     
    

    
     
      If
      I
      learned
      nothing
      else
      during
     
     
      this
      event,
      it
      is
      that
      writers
      actually
      do
     
     
      live,
      work,
      eat,
      and
      sleep
      among
      us.
     
     
      And
      not
      all
      of
      them
      wear
      black
      berets
     
     
      and
      chain-smoke
      in
      trendy
      Greek
     
    
   
   
    
     
      cafés.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      [11]